Backup
by Play-Your-Song
Summary: Holmes got them into trouble, and Watson gets them out. A story in 221B's. Gen/Friendship. Also on Watson-Woes, Live Journal. Complete.


_**A/N: **__This adventure was written as of a series of 221B's (eight chapters in all). I believe the 221B challenge was initiated by the talented KCS, whose Sherlock Holmes (and Star Trek) fanfictions I love. This story has also been posted at Watsons-Woes on Live Journal. _

_Please enjoy..._

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**__**"Backup"**__**  
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_**Chapter One: For the Blade**_

"My dear Watson, I regret to say I am not very pleased to see you."

"Yes, well, I must confess to the opposite emotion. I'm rather relieved to have found you, old man."

A sigh from Sherlock Holmes, whom Watson couldn't actually see, given they were tied with their backs facing one another.

"You're quite certain you're alright?" Holmes asked for the third time since Watson had awoken in that dimly lit room.

"Perfectly," Watson lied. His head ached, and his wrist was throbbing.

"Hm. You are a dreadful liar, my good man."

"Now Holmes," Watson diverted abruptly, "Sewn into the hem of my trousers is a small razor blade, as you recommended I have done after that odious affair in the slaughter house last summer. See if you can get to it?"

"Good old Watson! My current costume doesn't have any of the usual amenities!"

Watson shifted his leg under him as best he could, given the circumstances. The movement jarred his wrist, which he was beginning to suspect was sprained, and he couldn't quite contain the hiss of pain that escaped his lips.

"Watson, I do not wish to question your better judgment, but why in heaven's name did you not go to the police, instead of haring after me _alone_?" Holmes growled as he maneuvered for the blade.

_**Chapter Two: Expect Me To Be**_

"I disliked the idea of leaving _you_ out here all alone – at the mercy of these ruffians – whilst I personally rode into town to fetch the constable. It would have taken me an extra hour at the least to get out here to you. Likely longer, because Constable Dewberry is an idiot." Watson responded to Holmes' question with some heat, for he was exceptionally frustrated with having been captured, himself. "I did send for him, though, Holmes. Help should be here soon."

There was a small cry of triumph when Holmes acquired the hidden blade. Watson strained his ears for their captors. He heard muffled conversation in the adjoining room, but couldn't quite make out the words.

"Now, Watson, your arrival here and ensuing heroic struggle did serve the purpose of incapacitating two men. The guard outside the window has fallen asleep, and the other four in the house are busy deciding if they shall kill you or not." Holmes divined. "I almost have you freed, and then you shall slip out the back with little trouble. I will be behind you presently."

"Really, Holmes," Watson snorted, "if I had intended on leaving without you, I daresay I wouldn't have come in the first place!"

"Watson, don't be so dramatic!"

"My good man, how else do you expect me to be?"

_**Chapter Three: Bound**_

"They won't kill me, have no fear of that," Holmes spoke with calm authority. "They still want me to give over the name of our informant."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place, Holmes? I suppose I shall leave you here after all, to have the information beaten out of you whilst I hide on the other side of the hill until Dewberry arrives!"

"My dear fellow, I say they won't kill _me_, but I remain unconvinced that they will leave _you_ unharmed."

"As _I'm_ unconvinced that they will keep you alive! These men are unpredictable, having no sense of honor, and all they know for certain is _you_ have the power to expose them and send them to the gallows. Ah!"

Watson felt the rope that once constrained him fall off. He turned around to get a good look at Holmes, and cursed at what he saw.

Although Holmes had managed to keep his voice free from any indications of pain, it was clear to the doctor that something was wrong. Holmes' skin was sickly pale and clammy, and the man was trembling. Watson took the blade from Holmes' fingers.

Though the doctor only had use of his right hand, he was able to make quicker work of the rope than Holmes had with both wrists bound.

_**Chapter Four: Skip the Bandaging!**_

"You'll be right behind me, will you, Holmes?" Watson snapped, though his anger waned when he beheld his friend's pained expression. "And just when were you going to tell me that your leg was _broken_?"

"It's probably just badly sprained…"

"It is _broken_, Holmes. I am a doctor, in case you've forgotten."

"I have _not_ forgotten, Watson! You know your loyalty is invaluable to me, but I cannot currently run, and you cannot carry me."

"Then, I shall fight."

"Watson, be reasonable – "

"_Enough_!" The look the doctor gave Holmes permitted no further argument. "The only reason they bested me to begin with was I didn't know what they had done with you, and I was distracted. They do not expect us to be freed; we will have the element of surprise."

Watson's eyes darted about the room. It was furnished with an old writing desk and a chair that he very much doubted would have held anyone's weight. A bed frame with no mattress stood in another corner. The window was shaded by an old curtain, but the material did not seem strong enough to bind Holmes' injury. Watson set to work cutting strips from his own coat.

The voices in the other room suddenly grew heated, and Holmes tensed.

"Watson," he whispered urgently, "they're coming, _now_. Skip the bandaging!"

_**Chapter Five: While He Still Drew Breath**_

Watson's best bet for a weapon was the razor blade already gripped in his right hand. Though as a doctor, he didn't like to use it, the villains had given him precious little choice in the matter. He could tell Sherlock Holmes was shaken by this whole affair. It was Watson's medical belief that their captors had drugged the detective in order to subdue him. Whether Holmes had broken his leg in the struggle, or (and the next thought set his blood to boiling) the blaggards had intentionally broken the bone in order to prevent the man's escape, Watson did not know. Suffice it to say, these were very desperate, dangerous men (Watson's own wounds loudly attested to that fact), and he would be damned before he let them anywhere near his friend again.

Watson ordered Holmes to stay put and spare his leg, but he did not linger to insure his instructions were being followed. Their one advantage was the element of surprise. Watson crouched by the door, and Holmes' muddled imagination saw in his friend a lion, ready to pounce. The sight impelled the detective to cast his eyes about for something – anything – useful. Never mind his broken leg. Not in a million years would Sherlock Holmes allow John Watson to fight unassisted, not while he still drew breath.

_**Chapter Six: Holmes and His Boswell**_

Their first opponent walked unsuspectingly through the door, and was decommissioned before he ever realized that the captives were loose. The others were slow to comprehend just what was happening, but were quick to draw their weapons when their comrade went down. Watson kicked the gun out of one brute's grip, knocking him out with a well-aimed fist.

Holmes slammed the drawer of the old writing desk into the face of the third man, who collapsed to the floor with a groan, his pistol clattering next to him. The detective fell as much as dove to the ground, grasping for the fallen firearm. He cried out in pain when he landed, and fought to keep his vision from blacking out.

Watson turned in time to see the fourth man aiming his weapon at Holmes, and the doctor dove for the outlaw, pulling him to the ground as the bullet lodged in the wall. The villain managed to roll clear of Watson, and took aim. Watson flinched as the gunshot rang out –

… And exhaled shakily when he saw his would-be executioner collapse – dead. Sherlock Holmes was an excellent shot, even half passed-out from pain.

Their final adversary dashed in belatedly, having awoken from his nap to the sounds of gunfire. He wisely surrendered when confronted with both Holmes and his Boswell.

_**Chapter Seven: For Us Both**_

Constable Dewberry _was_ an idiot. Not only had he arrived too late to be of any assistance, but he also hadn't thought to bring a medic to a hostage situation. It was a good thing none of them had been shot. Watson fumed about it as he stumbled through the bushes to retrieve his medical bag (he had dropped it there outside the building). He then granted the Constable exactly one minute to get the pertinent facts from Holmes, before asserting that the detective could answer no further questions until his injuries were tended to.

Watson breathed a sigh of relief when the officer finally went about his business, leaving them with some measure of privacy. The doctor knelt beside Holmes, who was commendably controlling his respiration to moderate his pain.

Watson waited for the world to stop swaying, then gripped Holmes' wrist to check his pulse.

"Watson? You're trembling like a leaf, old fellow."

The doctor glanced up to see Sherlock Holmes' pale face creased with concern.

"So are you." Watson smirked. "We do make a sorry pair."

He opened the medical kit and began rifling through it with his one good hand, but Holmes snatched the thing away.

"Here, Watson. Between the two of us, we'll manage. What do you need?"

"Pain reliever, antiseptic, and bandages… for us both."

_**Chapter Eight: A Good Bit**_

Between the two of them, they _did_ manage, and they were soon ensconced in a cab destined for their temporary lodgings in town. Holmes' leg was securely bound and elevated on Watson's own lap, and Watson's wrist had been wrapped by Holmes (under the doctor's direction). Holmes seemed to have suffered no further damage from his ill treatment, and there was nothing to be done for the lump on Watson's head except to take it easy for a day or two.

So exhausted were they that Watson was not at all surprised to see Holmes' eyes drifting shut as he reclined against the seat cushion. With nothing left but the clipping of the horses' hooves to keep him company, Watson began drowsing, as well.

"Watson?"

"Hmm?" Watson shook his head to ward off sleep. He winced; it seemed any movement was a mistake.

"How is your head?"

Watson grimaced. "Still attached, my dear Holmes."

"Humph."

Another pause. Watson rested his eyes as the carriage turned up the road that would take them to the inn.

"Watson?"

"Yes?" The doctor asked drowsily.

"Thank you."

Watson smiled softly. "Think nothing of it, my friend."

"On the contrary. I think very much of it, my dear Watson."

At Holmes' candid approval, Watson (somewhat illogically) felt the strength of his headache diminishing a good bit.


End file.
